


Every-here and Any-here

by AnalystProductions



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Did I Mention Fluff, Eleventh Doctor Era, F/M, Fluff, Gen, House Party, Teenagers, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, University!Clara, Younger Clara, eleven/clara - Freeform, whouffle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:58:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnalystProductions/pseuds/AnalystProductions
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d promised himself after Akhaten that he wouldn’t do this again, going back and studying her as if she were nothing more than a fascinating object. He’d promised his two hearts he wouldn’t be here, or any-here with Amelia’s glasses leaning on his nose, treating the brunette as a subject for his inquisitive mind to linger over. But occasionally, or in reality rather often, he forgets about that promise he’d made to himself every Wednesday he drops her back home. </p>
<p>- She knows everything about him. It's overwhelming. Clara Oswald jumped into his timeline; she's seen all of his faces, his lives. So, logically, it only makes sense for the Doctor to sift through Clara's timeline until he can give her exactly what she gave him: undivided, total devotion and infinite understanding. [Whouffle]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every-here and Any-here

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little Whouffle piece [Friendship or romantic however you wish to see it]. 
> 
> Hope you like it x

He’d promised himself after Akhaten that he _wouldn’t_ do this again, going back and studying her as if she were nothing more than a fascinating object. He’d promised his two hearts he wouldn’t be here, or _any-_ here with Amelia’s glasses leaning on his nose, treating the brunette as a subject for his inquisitive mind to linger over. Clara Oswald was _so much_ more than that, of course she was. With her pretty face, infectious smile, short skirts and funny nose. Clara had touched both his hearts, defrosting the ice that had once so clearly held them captive. She was _just a girl,_ his Clara. He knew that. Yet she also _wasn’t_ because she simply _couldn’t_ be. It was impossible. And the temptation of unravelling the _impossible_ was too strong to ignore. The universe was forever baiting him with this one paradox.

So occasionally, or in reality rather _often,_ he forgets about that promise he’d made to himself every Wednesday he drops her back home.

He used to be just curious, genuinely transfixed and interested by every detail of this woman; the woman twice dead– soufflé girl, the _only mystery worth solving._ The very _thought_ had lured him further into her world, to explore and discover more about her. He hadn’t been this fixated with _anyone_ for a long time – it was exciting and refreshing. Something _impossible_ was going on, that had been evident. Yet there Clara Oswald was, living a perfectly ordinary life in an ordinary town with ordinary friends (some even bordered _boring_ if he was being completely honest). And there she was, with him, going off on wonderful adventures, roaming all of space and time. She was very much _real,_ very much human. _I fought the Daleks and I am human._

Even after Trenzalore, when the bravery and fortitude of his impossible girl had been revealed, and the mystery was _solved,_ he still breaks that promise. However, the reasoning for it has totally changed. It’s not to _pry_ or to follow the trail of breadcrumbs beneath his feet speculatively, it’s just because she’s in all honesty _perfect._ And quite franklyhe feels inadequately prepared for their future adventures, their entire _relationship._

She knows _everything_ about him.

It’s overwhelming. Clara Oswald jumped into his timeline; she’s seen all of his faces, his lives, his memories, his friends, _his enemies._ She’s seen his past, present and future, his fears and regrets, his good moments and his bad moments.

She’s seen it all.

Yet Clara Oswald doesn’t boast or gloat about this. She doesn’t even _question_ the things she’s seen. Instead, his name lingers on her skin; the memories trickle out in whispers through her pursed lips and pour out of her timeworn eyes when she thinks he isn’t looking. But what does he _really_ know about her, other than she lost her mother, she likes making soufflés, she wears a lot of pretty dresses and that she’s _his_ Clara? Really. It boggles him, how she can _stand it?_ How she can look at him and see _all of him_ right down into his soul,when in return he can only glimpse back at her at the most basic of levels. She _is_ special to him, and he wants her to know that. He wants to make her understand the impact she has had on his life, the depth of emotion she is able to evoke from him.

So, _logically,_ it only makes sense for the Doctor to sift through Clara’s timeline until he can give her exactly what she gave him: undivided, total devotion and infinite understanding. 

Besides, it not like he’s been spying on her in a _creepy way_. He dips harmlessly in and out of her life; a barely noticeable ghost blended into the background of her days. Although, admittedly right now he doesn’t feel like he’s blending whatsoever. In fact, he couldn’t be _more_ out of place. He starts to doubt his choosing of the date and time, standing awkwardly in the crowded living room with a horrendous low blaring noise. He can only guess that this is the younger generation’s version of music (it rather resembles the distress signal of the Dasmovian’s- hardly something fun and uplifting).

He’s tempted to flick his sonic and put some classic Sinatra on, maybe even some Brahms- _top man-,_ but that would only draw _more_ attention to his presence. Not only does he feel ridiculously overdressed in his suit and cool bowtie, but hideously old and definitely uninvited. To his relief, most of the youths here are too involved in their conversations, passionately dancing (some even with their tongues!), or concentrating on drinking some form of alcoholic substance to question his identity or intentions.

Gazing around the messy room, he purses his lips together. He’s not sure _what_ he was expecting really, for these are all only _the basic_ components of a university student’s house party, and the night has just begun. He feels a little misled, this is _hardly_ what he would call a party. For starters, there are no bananas. Humming to himself, decidedly against the poor choice of song, the Doctor scans the area. No sign of her. Why isn’t she here- this was _her_ party after all – even if it was a positively _terrible_ one!

He huffs as a disorientated boy barges into him, spilling a drink all down his tweed jacket. Adjusting his bowtie, he bites his tongue to prevent shouting profusely back at the intoxicated youngster. A few moments later, the Doctor decides that it’s too hot, stuffy and cramped in this house. How these people can stand it for so long he doesn’t know, it’s totally unbearable for _two hearts_ yet alone one.

As he steps outside the cold air hits him hard. It’s a dramatic contrast to the warmth of the cramped house. It’s then, when he’s walking down the narrow cobbled path, attempting to balance _right_ on the edge where it meets the road, that he sees her across the street. Alone. It’s her; it _has_ to be her. She’s sitting on the curb, knees drawn up to her chin. Her hair is much longer than it is now, trailing gracefully down her back. But those large brown eyes are ever the same, he’s sure even from this distance. Motionless, he deliberates what to do cautiously. Now he _has found her_ he’s not entirely sure what the protocol is. He doesn’t want to meddle _too much,_ that could be dangerous. He also doesn’t want to alarm her.

But he _wants_ to understand her, _all_ of her.

When she stumbles and her foot slips off the kurb clumsily, he realises that she is not totally sober. His eyes dart over to the bottle on the ground and the plastic cup in her hands. This could well work to his advantage. He’s suddenly within a two-metre radius from her, his feet apparently making the decision to take the risk. Hitching a breath nervously, his hands fumble as if drawing abstract patterns into the air devoid of precision. To his relief, she doesn’t acknowledge him or the shadow he’s cast over her against light of the lamppost. When she does lift her head and sees him, she doesn’t appear phased.

Now he’s close enough, he is absolutely _certain_ it’s her; a nineteen-year-old Clara Oswald. Totally human, _normal,_ and quite familiar. Those brown eyes were just the same as predicted, sparkling wonderfully in the spotlight cast from the street. But she’s also _so, so_ different – she’s bursting with fragile youth.

This Clara seems even more naïve and innocent than _his_ Clara, her features are softer and her eyes are that little bit wider. She doesn’t protest or speak when he sits down on the kurb next to her, apparently her bossiness has either wavered due to the alcohol or it hasn’t quite matured into its menacing form yet. They sit there in silence for a few moments. Clara lets go of her knees, stretching her legs out onto the road casually, hands folded neatly in her lap.

The Doctor mimics her actions subconsciously, leaning back on his palms. It’s only then, in the subdued silence they share that he realises she’s been crying. She’s tried to hide it and failed. He knows all the tell-tale signs; her eyes are puffy, her mascara has leaked a little down the corners of her eyes, and there’s a slight tension in her jaw that suggests she’s struggling to hold them at bay.

“Why are you crying?” he asks compassionately, restraining the urge to draw her into his arms because she doesn’t know who he is yet and that would be weird plus potentially destroy their beautiful future together. A surge of protective nature rushes through him; he clenches the pavement a little harder to keep still. In this moment, she looks incredibly vulnerable and he doesn’t like it one bit.

Wiping her eyes, Clara shakes her head and sighs. 

“I’m not.” Denial. Pause. The Doctor chuckles fondly, he hardly expected any other reaction from his stubborn, impossible girl.

“It’s nothing.” It’s definitely _something._ “Just silly…” she looks over at him for the first time, smiling bleakly with a hint of tentativeness that he knows would have washed away before they _really_ meet properly. Their eyes collide, and the Doctor waits patiently for the adolescent Clara Oswald to elaborate. Gazing up into the dark, starless sky of the city, the girl frowns.

“I _really_ thought he’d say something to me at least.”

At this, the Doctor’s eyes widen in surprise, his eyebrows raised. She appears to have not realised that she’s talking aloud, once again drifting off into her own world. Scratching the back of his head, the Doctor pulls a contorted expression. _This_ is the kind of conversation he tends to avoid, the kind that involves certain humany-wumany things he’s not brilliant at. But it’s _Clara Oswald_ and the thought of something as small and insignificant as a _human boy_ upsetting her; well he’ll make an exception for her. He always does and always will.

“Oh?” he probes gently, risking leaning over to nudge her with his elbow playfully. A wistful smile dances over her face briefly. “Come on then, I’m all ears what has this _terrible_ boy done?”

Turning to the Doctor, Clara hesitates. His lips gently tug towards a smile, and that appears to be enough consolation for the girl. Her body twists to face his, her attention devoted totally to him rather intensely. Like future Clara, she clearly was never one to do things half-heartedly. Her pupils are a little dilated and bloodshot, and also alarmingly close.

“-that’s the thing he hasn’t done _anything,_ he has just totally- _”_

The next thing the Doctor knows, she’s regurgitating everything that’s been spinning around her head for the past hour.

“-you see it all started _months_ ago. We’re in the same seminar together; he _always_ flirts with me, like the other day there was this moment when we were working together and he said-”

The Doctor blinks, grateful he has impeccable hearing because the rate she’s talking, combined with the slurring of her lazy tongue, is making it virtually impossible to decipher sentences yet alone words. Not that a lot of this is processing in his brain anyway, he’s finding it hard to grasp this situation.

“-He’s been showing all the signs, the other day he even played with my _hair_ and our hands are always brushing. He acts like he’s interested, and everyone thinks he is. But tonight, at my own _birthday party_ he has completely ignored me! He hasn’t said _anything_ about how I look – and I don’t mean this in a big-headed way or anything but Nina did my eye make-up and everything, I mean even _you_ ’ _re_ giving me the look-”

Admittedly yes, she does look beautiful in her skin-tight sapphire dress and matching heels. Her eyelids are peppered with a shimmering cerulean that seamlessly blends into a deep navy hue. Narrowing his eyes, the Doctor blushes at hers words and gawks in protest.

“-What?!! _No,_ shut-up that’s totally _indecent!-”_

She speaks over him carelessly, ranting more to herself than to him.

“-Anyway, I’d made an effort to look nice. Not just forHenry _,_ for my birthday and myself. Yet he has spent the entire night dancing around me-”

“-Wait, dancing- that’s _good,_ isn’t it?” the Doctor asks in confusion, holding a hand to his chin pensively. Henry – he assumes that is the boy in question.

“- _No_ not _actual dancing_ I mean he’s _avoiding_ me.” She snaps back almost petulantly cradling her head in her hands. “So I went to talk to him and-”

“-And?” the Doctor interjects quickly before he realises, surprised at his growing interest in Clara Oswald’s adolescent love-life. Casting him a dejected glance, Clara groans, burying her face further into her hands. 

“It was _embarrassing!_ He made no effort to even _look_ in my direction and then walked off to talk to _another girl_ midway through our conversation.” Pause. “I felt so _humiliated_ and hurt. I mean for him to do that _in front of people_ – our friends….” The Doctor watches helplessly as tears spill from Clara’s eyes. He assumes it’s the alcohol exaggerating the raw emotions she’s feeling.

“It just feels like this is happening _constantly_ to me and I really thought that for once someone liked me, but-”

He’s _certain_ she’s not aware of just how drunk she is. Subtly, he reaches over for the almost empty bottle of Tequila and tugs it from her grasp. Seconds later, she rests her head on his shoulder, slumping against him dismally, still spewing the endless stream of words.

“-I want to enjoy this night with _my friends_ , but he is just being a total idiot and making me feel like I don’t matter-”

“-Hey! Now that’s _enough_ of that,” the Doctor says sternly, feeling that strange protective aura possess him again as he strokes her hair soothingly. “You _do_ matter, you matter an awful lot.” He realises quickly that he’s mistaken his emotions; he’s _angry._ He’s angrybecause no-one should ever make _his_ beautiful, perfect Clara Oswald feel so unwanted or stupid.

“Who does this…horrid _nincompoop_ think he is?! Anyone can see that you’re a pretty young lady with a golden heart, a true catch if you ask me, any boy would be positively _stupid_ to let you out of their sight-” when he feels her body shaking, he hesitantly glances down at her, only to see that she’s laughing instead of crying. His anger wavers slightly, morphing into bewilderment. Regaining her breath she smiles up at him, a real toothy one this time.

“Did you just say…. _n-“_ lips twitching, she inhales a deep breath and tries again. “Nincompoop?” He catches a glimpse of the satisfaction that flashes over her face when she manages to say the word without stumbling.

“Yes. I believe I did.” The Doctor says cheerfully, raising his arms into the air dramatically. “Henry is a _nincompoop_!” he shouts, voice echoing through the street, spurring more laughter from her as she lunges for him.

“- _Noooooo,_ shh he might _hear you_ -” she tries to cover his mouth with her hand but he escapes her grip. It’s not hard to after all, she misjudged where his face was by practically half a meter. He helps her regain balance whilst responding.

“-He _deserves_ to learn the truth-" 

“-You’re a bit odd.” Clara admits, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. She doesn’t seem fazed by this though, rocking back and forth animatedly, a content lazy smile etched onto her face. Chuckling, the Doctor gazes up to the sky. The laugher fizzles out of his system, replaced by a pensive overtone he cannot escape. The young woman beside him senses the change in atmosphere, no longer rocking but sitting still and gazing intently at him. Clasping his hands in his lap, the Doctor studies them vacantly.

“One day,” he begins delicately. “you will meet a man who truly cares for you, not a silly little boy who thinks he’s the latest sensation. It might take a while, but once he finds you he will _never_ let you go.” Lifting his gaze to her, he lowers his voice attentively.

“Do you know why?” Even in her state, Clara seems a bit taken-aback. She shakes her head avidly, leaning towards him. Smiling, the Doctor averts his eyes down once more.

“Because you are special. You are his impossible girl, the only one that can heal his hearts, restore his compassion and see his soul,” pause. To his relief, she doesn’t notice the plural regarding the figurative man’s organs. “He’s been searching a _very, very_ long time for you; and despite the worlds he’s seen, the places he’s been, the people he’s met, _you_ are the brightest star in his universe.”

She furrows her brow, assuming he’s talking in some kind of extended metaphor. No matter; the words are beautiful, _wonderful._ She almost wants to _cry_ in joy at such lovely, perfect words. All she can do is widen her smile until her cheeks hurt, because if anyone _ever_ felt like that about her it would be absolutely magical. She’s sure of it. Although the man’s outline is blurred, and he’s now got four hands, she senses the adoration and fondness in his voice.

“Who is she?”

Her eyelids flutter a little, and that’s when the Doctor becomes concerned, purposefully ignoring her question.

“Clara,” he pats her cheek lightly, forcing her to open her eyes. “I think you should get some water and-”

“-You’re not my _Dad.”_ She chants back haughtily, though her words are slurred and far heavier. She tries to stand up and stumbles, immediately dizzy. She expects to hit the ground but instead doesn’t. She’s not sure how she’s standing or where the extra heat on her shoulders is coming from. Something presses her buzzing, disorientated mind. How does he know her name? Maybe he’s a sibling of one of her friends or something?

“Okay,” the Doctor murmurs comfortingly, slinging an arm around her and escorting her towards the rowdy house. “Let’s get you to your room-”

“-Don’t want to, want to…talk to you.” She mumbles weakly, blissfully unaware of the car that is driving down the road towards them. The Doctor ushers her across the road carefully.  

“You will, just not right now.” He assures her, reaching the front patio. 

“How…d’you know?” her words are muffled as she nuzzles into his jacket.

He doesn’t reply, leading her up the stairs without a second glance at the room of crowded people, some of who have stopped what they’re doing and are observing him. Despite protests, she manages to change herself without his help into comfortable nightwear and practically collapses into the bed. The Doctor takes this opportunity to grab provisions downstairs: a glass of water, some ibuprofen for the morning. He also finds the time to disconnect the music player via sonic technology (secretly of course, he can’t be making a scene) and to shepherd the drunken students out of the house. He returns to find that she has drifted to sleep peacefully.

Kissing her forehead, he brushes a hand over her the spot affectionately. He lingers longer than he should, reluctant to bid goodbye to this Clara. She’ll be alright. He _knows_ she will. He hasn’t given too much away, so wiping her memory is unnecessary. Besides, he doesn’t _want_ her to forget the words he said to her, even if she wakes up unable to remember the face that spoke them, or the context. With one final fleeting look, he leaves the house, locking the door and posting the keys back through the letterbox to ensure that she is safe.

As he exits the house, strolling down the road to where he’s parked the TARDIS, a voice calls out to him.

“Who are you?”

The Doctor turns to see a young boy, no older than twenty standing in front of him. He’s got an exasperating confidence about him, unruly blonde hair that ruffles on the sides, sharp cheekbones and large sapphire blue eyes. He is lean and athletic, exactly the kind of guy most girls his age would crush on.

“Well that depends, who are you?” the Doctor retorts back, folding his arms across his chest, a swell of irritation spreading through him. The reaction surprises even himself for usually a few enigmatic words or simply a mysterious smile would suffice before setting away. But not this time, he can already bet on the Galaxy of Adriash that this boy is-

“Henry-”

“-Ah yes, I thought as much.” The Doctor snapped back in a clipped tone, inching forwards. “Listen to me and listen hard, you do not deserve a _moment_ of Clara’s attention, especially after treating her the way you have tonight young man. She is not only _totally_ out of your league and miles above you, but a genuine lovely human who doesn’t need you making her feel small and insignificant. Because, _Henry-"_

Henry steps back cautiously as the Doctor prods a finger into his chest.

_“-_ In the grand scheme of things, Clara Oswald could not be any _more_ significant to the very fabric of this world.” A bit of an exaggeration, but technically by saving him a thousand times over, she’s saved the entire universe too.

“If you think that you can get away with messing her around or giving her any less than one-hundred and ten percent of your attention then you are mistaken. It’s all or nothing and judging by your behaviour this evening, I can tell you for _free_ that you can never be Clara’s all. Not in a million years. And if you think I’m joking then think again _Henry_ because you’re a _nincompoop_ and Clara- past, present and future - is _under my protection.”_

“Okay…?” Henry replied, a wobble of uncertainty in his voice as he eyed up the peculiar figure. “Are you Clara’s _boyfriend_ or something?”

“Now off you trot,” The Doctor said cheerfully, patting Henry’s head delicately. Henry blinked slowly, no doubt confounded by the sudden change in character. Making haste to the TARDIS, the Doctor adjusted his bow tie. He took two more steps before swinging round theatrically to address the boy.

“Remember,” he chanted. “ _Under my protection.”_

**Author's Note:**

> Might right a follow-up where he visits another 'Clara' :)   
> Let me know if you'd like to read another one!


End file.
